Hello! First of all I'll just say: HAPPY SUMMER! No school means more time for writing/editing/posting! However, this will probably be the last fic I get the chance to post for a while because I'm jetting off to Pennsylvania 6/19/09. And I won't have any decent computer access. It breaks my heart.
Now that we have that out of the way: This newest story is about all our couples characters (D, C, G, T, G, B). We have them in their respective pairings, and then we have them mixed up a bit too… You'll see.
*Takes place the day after Up The Creek, starting mid-morning and going through late-afternoon.* And by the way—the stories keep getting longer. I really don't know how to stop. This one kind of…wrote itself to life. But for some reason, it doesn't happen unless I'm sitting at my laptop.
Disclaimer: Total Drama Island is not mine. (A real shame, I know.)
B. Ping! R. Ping! I. Ping! G. Geoff knelt on the steps of the Bass cabin, facing the two adjacent screen doors. From the substantial pile of collected stones on his left, he picked up nugget after nugget and tossed them at the right-hand door (which belonged to the girls), spelling out Bridgette's name in his mind; he'd repeated it three times already.
DJ had previously convinced him to make amends with Bridgette for the unfortunate 'heart-shaped hand-made clay bowl' incident, and though Duncan had had quite different advice regarding the whole thing—"You're such a sap! Just quit while you're sort of behind,"—DJ had won out in the end, which left Geoff outside, beginning to doubt if Bridgette was inside.
Continuing to toss his stones, Geoff had made it to the fifth mental repetition of Bridgette's name (and had neared the bottom of his pile) by the time he heard footsteps coming from inside the girls' cabin. Bridgette sure had taken a while to notice the pinging, but better late than never, he figured!
Straightening up from his sitting position, Geoff stood the proper distance away from the door so as to not be hit by its outward swing. Nothing more than a vague outline of a shadow moving in the back of the boxy room, Bridgette spoke before he could see her. The voice he heard, however, didn't seem to belong to her…
"Ugh, Duncan!" a girl accused from inside, along with the sounds of furious stomping. "If I've told you once, I've told you a hundred times! It's not going to—" The door crashed against the side of the cabin, revealing a confused Courtney to an equally puzzled Geoff. "…happen." Her face changed from one of open agitation to one so devoid of emotion she could only be ticked off.
"Hi, Geoff," she said slowly, attempting to come down from the confrontational state she'd worked herself up into. Then, after a swift glance at the embarrassed romantic and at the little stones scattered chaotically around the porch, Courtney put two and two together. Raising her eyebrows, she asked primly, "Is there a reason for your throwing pebbles at my door?"
Swallowing and fiddling with his hat awkwardly, Geoff struggled to come up with the best course of action. Wasn't Bridgette supposed to be in there? That was the plan. After a moment of hesitation, he said, "Uh, sorry to bug you, Court, but is Bridgette around?"
Courtney thought back to the other night's recount of the 'heart-shaped hand-made clay bowl' debacle that Bridgette had given. Then, quickly deciding between the options of lying and telling the truth, she smiled at Geoff sadly, as one would smile at a puppy not allowed inside the house. He smiled back hesitantly, only strengthening Courtney's mental image of a puppy. "Bridgette went out a while ago, Geoff," Courtney said in her efficient manner. "I think she went swimming." Then, conversation being over, Courtney turned to go back inside.
Oblivious to her desire to retreat, Geoff responded eagerly. "See, I thought she'd be hanging at the dock too! I mean, I checked there first and everything, but I didn't even spot her board."
After looking over her shoulder, Courtney sighed and stepped out of the doorway, allowing the door to swing closed behind her. "Did you check the kitchen?" she asked, gradually becoming less cross. "Bridgette usually heads there after swimming."
"Yeah!" Geoff said, happy to have gotten a response. "No sign of her! I even checked with the girls in the Gopher cabin, and they haven't seen her either. And then Heather yelled at me. Something about messing up her Saraffin Max manicure… or something." Geoff visibly winced at the memory.
Courtney laughed. "You mean Paraffin Wax manicure," she informed him.
The boy across from her shrugged, announcing, "Dudette, I have no clue." Then, hoping that perhaps Courtney had lied a moment ago, Geoff asked again, standing on his toes in an attempt to see into the cabin: "So, Bridge's really not in there?"
Pursing her lips, Courtney replied, "No, she's really not," only the tiniest hint of mockery in her voice, a force of habit. Geoff didn't detect it.
After stumbling over his cheerless "All right, then. Sorry to, uh, bother you and everything" and then his hopeful "Let me know if you see her, 'kay?", he turned and hopped down the steps, presumably to return to searching. Courtney, on the verge of saying something not so kind, swallowed her words and said instead, "Good luck, Geoff." She sort of meant it.
Then, returning to her bunk, she waited for the screen door to slam closed before mumbling what she'd just about said to his face. "You'd do well not to bother her, though, pinhead. You've done enough damage." The words, though, contained no hint of anger or disdain. In fact, one might say they were delivered with a strange inflection of fondness, one of which even Courtney would not be able to explain.
Settling back into her bed, she picked up a superficial magazine pilfered from Sadie's stash and flipped through it, looking for something of substance; she found nothing. Her eyes occasionally strayed to the recently-fixed clay bowl on the girls' shared dresser, and would then return to the tacky titles of "She Kissed WHO?!" and "Horoscopes: Do They Really Work?"
After reading her own horoscope (Taurus) over five times and not registering it at all, Courtney shut the magazine and carefully set it back where she'd found it. Where is Bridgette? she wondered. Her capable mind came up with several viable possibilities, but not one of them came close to…
_-=-_
"Okay Trent," Bridgette said soothingly. "Now take a few, deep breaths." She sat on the floor of the males' side of the Gopher cabin (ironically, the only place in camp Geoff had neglected to search), her legs twisted up in what appeared to be a humanly impossible position; Trent sat a few meters across from her, attempting to copy the pose with little to no success. Looking up to examine the intricacies of the arrangement once again, Trent squinted in confusion. Is that even possible?
"Good," Bridgette said, though Trent knew it was a lie. Looking up again, he had just enough time to notice that Bridgette's eyes were completely closed before he tumped over onto his left side, legs remaining twisted. Using his arms to unwind his lower half, he rubbed his calves in an attempt to restore blood circulation as the feeling slowly returned to his legs. Just as he began to regret agreeing to yoga, he reminded himself that he was doing this for a friend.
DJ had approached Trent earlier that day with a simple request: "Could you keep Bridgette busy for a little while I get Geoff ready? Geoff wants to get Bridgette himself, but I'm not seein' that working out so well… Aw, thanks dude! We both owe you one." Of course, Trent had readily agreed to help his pal. It wouldn't be any trouble—or so he'd thought.
Earlier, carefully in Bridgette's presence, Trent had run around frantically, 'searching' for his 'lost' guitar. He'd panted and gasped and done just about everything short of fainting, all the while calling things like, "Have you seen my guitar? Aw, man, please tell me you've seen her. I don't know what I'll do if something happened to her! I have no clue where she went…"
And Bridgette, a good-natured soul, had been patient while he told her his fabricated story about the supposed whereabouts of his instrument, and had even offered to do some yogic meditation with him to calm him down. Of course, Trent was entirely clear on the whereabouts of his guitar—he'd loaned it to Geoff earlier as part of the plan—but he didn't freak out often, so he figured a lost guitar made for a believable story.
That left him sitting in the peace and quiet, alone in the cabin with Bridgette, twisting into positions that were sure to leave him insanely, irrevocably sore tomorrow. But, you know, anything for a friend in need; if he'd been in trouble with Gwen, he'd have wanted some help too.
"Okay," Bridgette continued mildly. "Now we'll move into Bhujangasana, also called Cobra pose."
After a quick but extreme expression of horror, Trent decided he'd taken enough yoga in the past hour to hold for a lifetime. "Huh, you know Bridgette, that sounds great and everything, but I'm actually feeling way better now. Really calm. Thanks a million for…that." He put his hands together in prayer and bowed to Bridgette like in the movies. "Enjoy Jangabugasana."
Bridgette looked a bit surprised at having been interrupted before the end of her session, but didn't seem to mind. "Glad I could help," she said a bit absentmindedly, still deeply immersed in Cobra pose.
Unsure of whether he was entirely dismissed, Trent stood up slowly, stumbling over his Jell-O-ey legs. Losing his balance, a loud slap! sounded as he smacked his hand against the wall to avoid falling; Bridgette jolted out of Bhujangasana. Yogic spell broken, she stood while Trent marveled at how sturdy she seemed. Apparently, yoga wasn't Kryptonite to everyone. Who knew?
"Oh, hey," Bridgette said as an afterthought. "Did you remember where your guitar is?" Bridgette looked about ready to leave the cabin, a problem since Geoff hadn't yet signaled to Trent—it was all about the plan.
Trent snatched at a reason to delay her. "My guitar! Yeah, I think I remember. Well, I'm stuck between two places, actually. I might have left it on Gwen's side of the cabin yesterday…" Bridgette nodded and headed even closer to the door. "OR," Trent stalled, "It could be over by the bonfire." Then, reverting to his chilled self: "What do you think?"
Bridgette's expression turned to one of amused confusion, eyebrows furrowed but smile present. "I don't really know where your guitar is," she said. "I guess you're going to have to think about it."
"Oh, right," Trent said, ears straining to hear the signal (a chord from his own guitar). "You think you could help me with that?" he asked distractedly. Still listening…
"Help you with what?" Bridgette asked, struggling to keep up with this train of thought. "...Thinking?"
Trent heard it then—a combination of notes played so faintly that only someone listening for them would have heard. Trent's nose wrinkled slightly at Geoff's amateurish technique, but what could a person expect after only an hour-long crash course in guitar?
"Are you feeling all right, Trent?" Bridgette questioned, understandably concerned for his mental health.
"Oh, yeah," Trent said. "I'm fine. You know, I just remembered where my guitar is. You want to come get it with me?" Trent was already halfway out the door.
"Uh, sure," Bridgette said, following after him. "Where is it?"
A moment of indecision later, Trent decided on the truth. "Geoff has it."
Bridgette's eyes narrowed and she slowed her walk, still a bit shaken by the 'heart-shaped hand-made clay bowl' incident. "Why does Geoff have your guitar?"
"It's a pretty long story, actually," Trent hedged, determined to reach the dock where Geoff was waiting for them. Rounding the corner of the Bass cabin, the dock came into view, just as…
_-=-_
Bridgette, squinting against the late afternoon sun, made out Geoff's silhouette in front of the backdrop of the ocean. Geoff stood facing her wearing a meek smile; the fingers of his right hand twitched repetitively, mimicking guitar chords. One of the camp's wooden deck chairs had been placed across from him to look out at the end of the dock, and Trent's guitar lay behind Geoff, a few planks from the water.
Trent, upon seeing his guitar's position, tightened his face in worry. His eyes traced the distance between his instrument and the water a few times before he jogged over, picked it up gingerly, and handed it to Geoff. "Okay, man," he whispered. "You have this. Just remember what we went over, and you'll be fine. And, I'll be right over there—" he jerked his head in Bridgette's direction "—in case you get stuck. Solid?" Geoff nodded, and Trent smiled encouragingly before retreating.
Tipping his head at Bridgette politely, he proceeded to situate himself approximately 14 meters behind her, a distance considerate enough so the couple could still feel some small element of privacy, but not so far away that he couldn't bail Geoff out should the need arise.
Bridgette, seeing no easy route of escape, settled into the chair set up for her and straightened out her sweatshirt. Geoff stood watching for her to finish; as Bridgette looked up, their eyes met.
Geoff cleared his throat, his mouth pulling into a smile. In a heartfelt gesture, he knelt down in front of Bridgette, hands around the neck of Trent's guitar. "Bridgette," he began, his formal tone indicating many hours of rehearsal. "When I made you that bowl in arts and crafts, I wasn't really thinking. I see now that it was pretty weird and stuff, and…uh…"
Geoff's eyebrows furrowed as he searched for the rest of the speech. "Oh, yeah, right. So, in apology, I made up—" Geoff interpreted a stern look from Trent and changed his wording. "I mean I wrote—" Another stern look from behind Bridgette. Geoff screwed up his face in an effort to recall the correct terminology.
"Composed!"
Bridgette didn't turn around to look, but logic would indicate that Trent was responsible for the correction.
Geoff made some brotherly gesture to Trent in a sign of thanks and then said, "Composed, right. Sorry, bro! Okay, so I composed this song for you, Bridge, so uh, I hope you… like it."
Geoff stood and shifted his attention to the guitar, recalling the crash course Trent had given him. Looking out to Trent for his starting chord, he fixed his hands to match and strummed the opening note. Then, in a surprisingly clear voice, he began (accompanied by a random combination of approximately three beginner chords):
"A few days ago, I made you a bowl,
But Deej said that was weird, and-that-was-probs-why-you-disappeared.
But I worked ultra hard, and I learned guitar
To prove to you that I really do,
Care about you—but friends would be cool!
I don't wanna lose what we had, cause then I'd be sad,
So if you'd forget the clay, I just wanted to say,
Sorry 'bout that whole thing: that's all I've got to sing."
Finished, he laid down the guitar on the dock and walked to where Bridgette sat. He offered her his hand, and she took it. After becoming stabilized on her feet she tugged to reclaim her hand, but Geoff held it tightly. A moment later, after what appeared to be an intense mental battle on his part, he said, "I really am sorry, dudette. That whole deal was outta line. But are we—er—you good now?"
He eyed her uncertainly, chewing on the inside of his lower lip, a long-lived nervous habit of his. The blondes stood there for a few moments, awkwardly clasping hands on the edge of the dock; it might have gone on for quite a bit longer if it weren't for an interruption from Trent.
Once again eyeing his abandoned guitar, he crept around the couple and knelt down beside it, inspecting it for damage, all the while managing to avoid eye contact. Becoming assured of its safety, he grabbed it by the neck and secured the instrument on his back with the strap.
Finally looking back at Bridgette and Geoff (who were, by that point, looking at him rather curiously) he offered by means of explanation: "Not a scratch on her, man." He held up a quick 'A-OK' sign. "So, yeah, I'll just grab her now… Thanks guys." He scurried away without another word, but not before flashing Geoff a thumbs-up.
Meanwhile, Geoff still awaited the answer to his previous question. Carefully extracting her hand from Geoff's grip, Bridgette responded, "Yeah, I think I'm good now." She smiled, and then quoted from the song, "Friends would be cool."
Upon hearing those words, Geoff's demeanor changed from nervous to ecstatic as if a switch had been flipped. "Yeah it would! Hit it here!" He offered his palm to Bridgette, who met it with a high-five. "Friends is awesome, Bridge."
Bridgette smiled, crinkling her eyes. "Friends is pretty nice, huh?"
"You know it!" Geoff whooped.
Bridgette, as quickly taken in by his infectious spirit as scared away from it, felt her mood brightening at an exponential rate. "So, as friends, do you want to go to thank Trent with me?" Bridgette looked past the Bass cabin to the Gopher cabin, where Trent was just managing to make his way through the left-hand door. "That was really cool of him."
"Sure thing!" Leaving the deck chair sitting crookedly on the pier, the recently-reconciled pair made their way to the Gopher cabin. They had nearly made it inside when, loudly interrupting Bridgette's compliment to Geoff's aptitude for guitar…
_-=-_
Courtney slammed out of the Bass cabin, running straight to the porch railing and clutching her stomach. She leaned over, stood suspended for a moment, and then promptly proceeded to throw up into the unfortunate bushes below. This, sadly, was not an entirely rare occurrence—with Chef's cooking being the only thing the campers consumed, gagging, puking, retching, barfing, and other assortments of upchucking were not as uncommon as they should have been.
Assuming that Chef was behind the episode (either intentionally or not intentionally—no one was really sure), Geoff and Bridgette offered Courtney sympathetic looks before entering the Gopher cabin, not out of lack of concern but instead out of "If I'd just been on the bad end of food poisoning, I'd want some space as well." If Courtney had straightened up, dusted herself off, and then proceeded to the washrooms, like nearly all of the campers had been forced to do at one point or another, no one would have given it a second thought.
Courtney, however, did not straighten up, dust herself off, or head to the washrooms. Instead, she slumped over the rickety railing and slowly slid to the ground. Arranging herself so she was upright, she closed her eyes, sitting in silence; anyone on the island would have known that was highly abnormal Courtney behavior.
Then, interrupting the quiet, Duncan busted out of his half of the cabin, headphones resting on his shoulders. "Okay," he called, glancing around. "Who just puked?" He propped the screen door open with one hand while his eyes searched around for Chef's latest victim.
Teal eyes widening at the sight of Courtney sitting on the ground, he sniggered. "Princess! It was you?" he asked, incredulous. Duncan pulled off his headphones and tossed them inside before removing his hand from the door, allowing it to bounce closed. He crossed the porch to where Courtney sat and said, "I can't believe you actually ate that mess Chef tried to give us yesterday."
Duncan waited for the biting punch-line. However, a few moments later, he realized there was a slight problem: no punch-line had come. No insult, no jab, no venom to speak of. Courtney just sat there, a scowl fixed onto her face.
Thrown off, Duncan squatted down to get level with her. Upon closer inspection, he noticed a few things: (1) Her usually tan complexion had become just a little bit paler than usual (he could have counted the freckles between her eyes) (2) she was tired (obvious by the lack of biting punch-line), and (3) she was sweating (does that need explanation?).
"Okay, you're not lookin' so good right now," Duncan said. He wasn't familiar with many legal things, but illness had become one of his specialties after he'd been forced to help out at the community hospital as a portion of community service. He couldn't even remember what crime it had been for, but the [disgustingly] encyclopedic knowledge remained.
At that remark, Courtney seemed to remember where she was, who she was talking to, and what type of response was acceptable in the situation. Making a remarkable recovery, she snapped, "You don't know what you're talking about!" and then scooted around to sit on the cabin steps. "I feel fine."
Duncan sat down next to her and placed the back of his hand to her forehead.
"Don't touch me," she threatened, pushing his hand away.
It was too late. Duncan smirked as his original theory was confirmed. He turned to her announcing, "You're sick, Sweetheart."
Courtney's lips pursed and her eyes narrowed. "I'm not sick." Courtney didn't get sick. "And don't call me Sweetheart." Courtney hadn't been sick since the third grade, a fact she credited to her impeccable hygiene and superior dieting habits! And even if she was sick (which she wasn't), she would never admit it to Duncan, of all people!
Duncan scoffed and leaned back on his elbows, settling in for the argument he saw coming. "Yes you are. You're sick. And not just sick—you're burning up, sweat it out, sleep for five days, I-need-a-bowl-of-chicken-noodle-soup sick."
"I'm not!"
"Then why'd you just puke? Only sick people puke."
"I assure you, I'm not sick." Courtney then cast a sour look at the bush that had received the remnants of her breakfast.
"So you're bulimic," he stated matter-of-factly.
"What?" Courtney cried, confused by his sudden change in direction. "No, of course I'm not bulimic! Where did that come from?"
Duncan chuckled as he rose from his seat and began pacing around in front of her. "Well, you just barfed, but now you're trying to tell me you're not sick at all. All logic points to bulimia, so face it:" He put on the serious face of a doctor and then turned to confront her. "You have a problem."
Courtney turned an angry shade of red as she propelled herself off the steps and into Duncan's face. "Duncan, I don't have bulimia!"
"Then why'd you just blow chunks into the bushes?"
"I'm just not feeling all that well, OKAY?!" she screeched. Then, seeing the triumphant leer making its way over Duncan's features, she wished she could take the words and shove them right back down her [admittedly] germ-infested mouth.
She stared at Duncan with a glare of such intense hatred it could have wilted a flower. And not just a flower! More like a whole field of flowers!—at least that was what Courtney was going for. Duncan, though, seemed unaffected by the death-stare; he looked back at her with an expression of child-like innocence, one of which Courtney was certain was feigned.
Courtney, unaccustomed to such clear defeat, was unsure of how to proceed. Should she just admit he was correct and cut her losses? Continuing to deny being sick was out of the question since she'd just brilliantly declared she wasn't feeling well. She considered blaming the retch on Hatchet's food, but then remembered she'd neglected to eat dinner the other night—too busy helping Bridgette re-glue that horror Geoff had baked. Speaking of which, Bridgette still hadn't—
"Hello, sick person, care to join me?" Duncan called, waving his hand in front of her face. Courtney blinked and returned to the current situation, which Duncan interpreted as a cue to continue. "You can't stay here sick, so are you going to bunk at the infirmary on your own or do I have to force you over there?"
"None of the above," she said primly, turning away from Duncan to head back to her blissfully empty living quarters. Two steps' progress had been made before Duncan grabbed her upper arm and pulled her back down.
"Oh, no you don't. Look, since you're going to be slow and not go yourself, I'm getting Chef." He released her upper arm, grabbed her wrist, and began pulling her in the direction of the Mess Hall.
"LET GO OF ME!!!" The sheer volume of the command would have been enough to knock anyone else off his feet, but Duncan simply turned around to combat her next argument. His plans changed, though, as he saw the look of pure panic on Courtney's face. Her complexion had paled even further, leaving it whiter than it had been only a minute ago.
Duncan dropped her wrist and took a step back, folding his arms. "Okay Princess, what's wrong with you?" The words were delivered as an insult, but the question behind them was mysteriously sincere.
Courtney closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and locked gazes with the delinquent in front of her. "You want to know what's wrong with me? Fine. So I'm sick, okay? I'll be mature and admit it." She stabbed a finger at his chest as she often did when trying to make a point. "But you're not going to tell anyone about this."
Duncan opened his mouth to argue, but Courtney cut him off. "Don't even!" She took another breath and looked him head on, wearing a look of fierce determination. "No one can find out about this. If anyone does, they're going to want to vote me off; no one wants a sick person on their team! I am not going to sit back and get sent home for something so trivial as a minor ailment, especially when I'll be fine by tomorrow. So now: you're not going to tell anyone, I'm not going to tell anyone, I'm going to get better in a maximum of two days—just in time for the challenge—and if anyone asks, it was all because of Chef's dinner last night. Understood?"
Her stance was strong, eyes clearly saying, "Disagree with any part of those instructions and you'll be very sorry when you wake up tomorrow." The pair stood there silently, watching the other for weakness, hesitation, or any other general signs of defeat; none were found on either account.
They broke gazes as they heard a quiet snigger. "What are you two doing?" Gwen asked, breaking the silence as she passed by the cabin. "You guys look ridiculous."
The suspicious duo momentarily ignored her. "Clear?" Courtney asked again, still waiting for her answer.
Duncan smirked. "Clear as mud, Darling." Courtney tensed up, so he continued quickly, holding his hands up. "Okay, relax, you have nothing to worry about." Having received her answer, Courtney turned for the washrooms. Duncan called up to her from where he stood, "You owe me one, though!"
Courtney, not even pausing to turn around, tipped her nose up and sniffed. "I owe you nothing." She arrived at the washrooms just as…
_-=-_
Gwen burst out laughing at the expression Duncan wore in response to the last statement. Gwen analyzed it and concluded that the look was a rough mix of annoyance, anger, bewilderment, a small amount of acceptance, and the look of someone doing a favor, all layered under the façade of eternal boredom; she found it to be highly comical, especially accentuated as it was by the piercings.
"Can the laughter," Duncan ordered emotionlessly—a good thing since the last emotion he'd felt had been anger. Annoyance. Amusement. Extreme distaste. Hatred. Wait, hold on a minute…
Gwen struggled to comply with his demand, eventually settling into silence, though a smile remained on her lips. "So," she said conversationally. "Why does Courtney owe you?"
Duncan rolled his eyes and plopped back down onto the steps, yanking out his pocket knife. "It's nothing," he retorted, unmoved.
"Yeah," Gwen said sarcastically, "I figured it really was nothing when she said 'I owe you nothing'." Gwen sat down on the grass in front of the cabin and laid her sketchbook on her lap. "Because I mean—and this is just me—but I walk around saying stuff like that all the time."
Duncan chose not to reply to her cynicism, instead unenthusiastically shaving at his wooden seat. After a substantial amount of silence had passed by (and a large pile of wood shavings had collected beside the delinquent), he looked up to see Gwen watching him shrewdly.
"What?" he asked flatly.
Gwen shook her head, tucking a scraggly strand of hair behind her ear. "Nothing."
"Okay then."
Silence. And more. And then, when Duncan thought it undoubtedly couldn't go on for much longer, it went on.
"What??" The interrogatory was delivered through clenched teeth and with a bit more feeling.
"I'm just drawing," Gwen pointed out. "I don't know why you seem to think there's some hidden meaning to it." She recommenced her sketching to illustrate the point. "You must be paranoid."
Duncan stabbed his knife into the design he'd carved into the wood. "God, you chicks are all crazy, you know that? I have NOTHING to be paranoid about and everyone here knows it."
Gwen paused and set her drawing down beside her. "Okay, one, not all 'chicks' are crazy," she corrected, using the air-quotes she was generally opposed to. "…Just some of them—I think Chris found all the real nuts. And two, do you want to say it, or should I?"
Duncan stepped forward, towering over Gwen from where she remained seated in the grass. Then, having established his dominance over the conversation, Duncan warned, "You have about 20 seconds to start making sense or believe me, I am going to—"
"Oh, come on Duncan," Gwen said, cutting him off. Sure, she knew it was stupid to provoke him, but because he was being so dense, she continued. "Give it up; you should know by now that you don't scare me."
Duncan's stance hardened, as if preparing to change her mind.
She ignored this change, saying, "If you're really going to make me say it, fine, I will, just don't shoot the messenger." Gwen stood and looked at him, stating simply—as if it were the most obvious thing in the world—"You have Courtney to be paranoid about."
She quickly continued before Duncan had enough time to register the accusation and damage any of his immediate environment. "And Courtney has you to be paranoid about! Whether it's true or not, the whole camp thinks you've got it for each other." She shrugged. " I can see how that's something to be paranoid about. And let's get real, with both of your lovely personalities, I can't really blame either of you for being worried." She snickered.
Steam practically flowed from Duncan's ears as he swiftly shot the messenger. "Goddamn it! Tell me: were me and the freaking CIT the only ones not to receive this fucked up memo of yours? Because last time I checked, I hated her and she hated me. I can check again if you really want, but let me tell you: me hating her is one thing that is NEVER going to change. So you can tell whoever's spreading those fugging rumors that I'll just as soon mess with their faces as they mess with my reputation." He spat out the last words.
Duncan ended his rant breathing hard, fists clenched at his sides. After a brief period of mental recovery he cracked his knuckles, but only for show; anyone within killing distance wasn't worth killing. Gwen would certainly have been the obvious choice, but so far she'd been the only girl on the island he hadn't wanted to throttle (though she really wasn't helping her case), and he concluded that doing her damage wouldn't be worth the effort.
After waiting a moment for Duncan to cool down, Gwen spoke again. "Okay," she said, kneeling back down to gather her things. "I can see I'm not getting anywhere with you, so I'm leaving." As an afterthought, being only partially sarcastic, she added, "Try not to destroy anything while I'm gone."
Duncan glared at her through hostile eyes, replying with a cold, "No promises." No sarcasm was contained within the words.
As Gwen turned to continue on to her destination, Duncan spun around and stamped up the stairs, pleased with the satisfying bang! the screen door made as it collided with the cabin siding. Duncan snatched his headphones from their spot on the floor just as the door smacked back into the doorframe—another satisfying bang. After flopping onto his bunk, Duncan shoved the device over his ears and cranked up the head pounding music, perhaps in a subconscious attempt to block out all Gwen had just said to him.
So far, it was working quite well.
Gwen, on the other hand, wasn't suffering from any of those symptoms because…
_-=-_
She sat in a secluded part of the forest, not far from camp but located in a place that was more difficult to find—it suited her quite well. Her back supported by a sturdy tree, she concentrated on putting the finishing touches on the sketch she'd just been working on; it was one of her favorites.
"Mind if I join you?" Trent poked his head around a tree and fixed his green eyes on the artist.
"Trent!" she said, jumping up. She frantically knelt back down and flipped her sketchbook closed, holding it to her chest, and moved to stand. "How'd you get here?"
Trent halted her efforts as he knelt down beside her, a slight sparkle in his eye. "Well, first I took a step with my left foot, and then I took a step with my right, and then left again…"
Gwen's mouth smiled of its own accord, though she quickly forced it away. "Seriously, how did you find me?"
Trent became worried. "Do you want me to leave?"
"No!" Gwen assured him, later kicking herself for being so emphatic. She covered with, "Well, I mean, if you want. It doesn't matter to me."
"Cool. Then I'll stay." Trent settled down next to her, once more assured of being a welcome presence. "And to answer your question, I saw Duncan shouting at you. I thought you might want some… company after that."
That's so sweet! "That's kind of weird." Gwen furrowed her eyebrows. "So, you followed me."
Trent scratched the back of his head with minor embarrassment. "Well, I mean, yeah. Duncan sounded really ticked. You're not…" He looked down at her, eyes anxious. "…Hurt or anything, are you?" Trent found himself leaning a bit forward, desperate to prove himself sincere.
"Oh, I'm plenty hurt." Trent's eyes widened at this unexpected response while Gwen continued. "I had to row a canoe for a combined distance of 23.8 kilometers, run with a canoe over my head for two more kilometers while being chased by mutant beavers and prehistoric birds, watch as you and Barbie nearly died by quicksand, and build a fire that Izzy made explode. And that was just yesterday."
Trent gave her a look somewhere between "Hey, I did all that too," and "You know that wasn't what I was getting at."
Gwen sighed. "But no, Duncan didn't go all juvenile delinquent on me." Gwen, who had up until that point been avoiding eye contact, turned and looked at the boy next to her. "Thanks, though."
Trent smiled. "Anytime. I mean, I just wanted to make sure—I figure he could have done some real damage if he wanted to." Trent screwed up his face at the thought. "BUT," he continued, "I bet if we wanted to, all of us together could beat him. …Maybe," Trent added jokingly. "As long as we got DJ."
Gwen smiled at the joke before rolling her eyes at the thought of Duncan doing damage. "Don't tell him I said this," she said conspiratorially, "But I really don't think Duncan'd hurt a fly."
"He killed that cockroach on the first day," Trent argued. "With an axe."
"It's a figure of speech."
"But he's been to juvy."
"I bet it was just for vandalism."
"Just for vandalism?"
"Trent, trust me: Don't worry about Duncan."
Gwen cast a nervous glance down at the sketchbook resting on her lap at those words, a glance that Trent didn't fail to detect.
"Fine," Trent conceded. "I trust you." Then, gesturing to the sketchbook, "What were you working on?"
Gwen snatched up her sheaf of papers and held it to her chest. "Nothing."
Trent laughed, trying to wrestle it from her. "Come on, you've got to be drawing something. Why can't I see?"
Gwen ducked around his arm and jumped up, running to the opposite end of the clearing. She shouted across: "It's not just you! I don't let anyone see them."
"But I'm special!" Trent jumped up and pursued her for several uneven circles before catching her around the waist from behind.
Gwen giggled, accepting defeat. "Oh, you're real special, all right." Trent motioned to her sketchbook with his head since his arms were tied up. "Fine. But if you want to see anything, you're going to have to let go of me."
Trent tipped his head sideways to look at her face. "What if I don't want to let go?" he asked slyly.
"Then you're not seeing any of my drawings!" Gwen struggled a bit until Trent released her. "Okay," she said, searching through the book. "This is the one I was just working on, inspired by Duncan." Gwen chuckled to herself as she handed over her [arguably] most prized possession.
A bit peeved that Duncan would be the inspiration for one of her drawings, Trent took the sketchbook carefully and looked down at the page. His mouth dropped open. "You drew this?" he asked.
Gwen bit her lip and nodded nervously.
"It's amazing," Trent said in awe. The picture definitely held a likeness to Duncan, though the delinquent would have hated to know it. In the foreground, his head was placed on the body of a comically puny dragon (in the exact shade of green as Duncan's Mohawk); it appeared to be viciously breathing fire, but weak puffs of smoke around its mouth were the only result. Further on in the middle ground, obviously guarded by the dragon, was a medieval castle, complete with spires and yawning windows. Out of the most obvious window leaned a princess in a grey-violet dress with dark eyes and brown hair. "Courtney?" Trent asked, laughing.
"Yup." Gwen smiled, pleased with herself.
"That's ingenious!" Princess Courtney leaned out of the window precariously, aiming a bow and arrow at puny (but ferocious!) Dragon Duncan, all the while managing to yell at him furiously. The scene was so real (and so accurate), Trent could almost see it moving. He looked up from the drawing. "How do you come up with something like this?"
Gwen shrugged and sat back down against her tree, Trent following. "I just look around, I guess. Ideas are everywhere." Gwen thought for a moment before glancing up at Trent. "You won't tell anyone you saw this, right?"
Trent nodded. "I promise." He started flipping through the rest of the book. "So…" he started curiously. "Is there one of me in here?"
"Yup." Gwen swiftly grabbed the sketchbook from him. "But you can't see it." She cast him a cunning sideways glance.
Trent made a face at her. "Am I some sort of creature?"
Gwen didn't reply, but her eyes gave her away.
"Am I a dog?"
Gwen laughed. "No."
"A fish?"
"No."
"A…lion?"
"No!"
"A platypus?"
"You mean that duck/beaver/reptile thing?"
"Yeah."
"No!" Gwen fell on her side, laughing in hysterics.
Trent had one more guess. "I'm one of those mutant beavers, aren't I?" he asked, kidding.
Gwen stopped laughing and looked up at him in shock. "How'd you know?"
Trent's eyes widened. "I was right?"
"NOPE!" Gwen flipped her book closed and sat on it to insure its safety.
Trent attempted to wrestle it from her again, but Gwen was unyielding in its protection. Though the struggle continued for quite a while, it wouldn't be for weeks later that Trent discovered he was in fact, in Gwen's point of view, an owl.
To be specific, he was a handsome gray owl perched on the limb of a tree, flowing musical notes extending from its open beak in the illusion of song. The owl itself had glowing emerald eyes and a puff of feathers over its head in clever imitation of Trent himself. The owl, combined with the peaceful evening background, made for a picture that simply screamed Trent.
But like I said: Trent didn't know any of that yet.
I hope you all are happy with my animal of choice! Big thanks to m u f f i n s xD for the original idea. Good thinking! An owl makes sense to me because they're not very violent, but they can whip it out if they have to. They're beautiful and overall graceful and protective creatures. And they sort of make music, right? I mean, they hoot...
Okay, hope you enjoyed it; I had a total blast with this one. All my favorite characters are included in the couples, and it's strangely fun to write for the fanon pairings (CourtneyxGeoff, TrentxBridgette, GwenxDuncan), though I will never, ever, ever write for them romantically. Ever.
I have to say, it was pretty difficult writing for Gwen and Duncan; I kept running into dead ends where they wouldn't talk to each other. I pretty much figured it out to my satisfaction, though. And, for those of you who are curious, I thought Gwen and Trent were the easiest (which surprised me since I've never written about them before).
And a quick question: Do you ever have a really good plan for one section of a story but then, when you go to write it, it just doesn't work? I had this whole thing set up for Duncan and Gwen, them making fun of Courtney for being so insane about being sick and Geoff for being such a sap, but Duncan just wouldn't let it happen. I swear, all the characters are alive inside my computer.
And now: Requests? Comments? Complaints? [Thoughts on Trent's sketch-identity?] Please, review or PM and let me know!
